2007-08-06
rough and meddlesome
I want something rough, something meddlesome. Something agitating, something harsh and filled with a delightful woe. Maybe scraping skin, but my breath caught by something other than my running, for once. I need to learn how to touch myself, and I meant that in such an encompassing way that it's too difficult to explain.
Drama and emotion can be such awfully banal and repulsive concepts. It all depends upon how one manifests and expresses such notions, I think. People like my boyfriend secretly resent sentimental and "mushy" expressions, I think, because they are so used to seeing them being repulsively presented, and will not grace the world with their own likewise schemes, as they see themselves above it. But in doing so they stifle any form of expression whatsoever; in their indignance, others are left at a loss. There are compelling, inviting, vivid ways to express oneself and nurture original, stunning emotions and thoughts- and ultimately drama- without stooping oneself to soapoperaesque or preadolescent styles. There is no need to write off feelings as hokey, cheesy, and stereotypical, and reserved only for those with raging hormones; it is defying one's own humanity to consider raw instincts- those of misery and joy and the overwhelming demonstration of such- out of the realm of one's personality, reputation, and identity.
Tell me how you feel, I beg. Show me how you feel, what is grabbing you, say the words without considering them to heavily. Ignore the media and society that you wish to evade, banish thoughts of the dreaded melodrama that you disregard. Just be human, thinking, breathing, feeling. Show me your life, not fabricated into an untrue constant, a feigned solidity mumbled through forcibly articulated words, but a lively yelp, a murmur, a scream, a sigh, what you have within that you can bring outward without resorting to a bitch slap, slit wrists, or a lowly raging yell, or a whisper so harshly dull yet pithily trying to cut like kindergarten scissors applied to horse's hair. And I know I suck with these words, but that's ironically kind of the point, that they don't matter, but it's worth a try. Because emotions are there and real, and it's good that they are, and it's stupid to avoid or stifle them when so much beauty or truth, the core of your self, can arise from them. So be candid, be real.
When are you free? Why do you make me feel like I am asking for too much, to know how you feel? Why must everything be understated, oversimplified, easy going? It is laid-back. Well, I yearn for you to learn forward. Bring your shoulders closer, let your face meet mine, and look at me, straight on. These are my eyes, they are fickle so sometimes what behind them seems dynamic, when they are really just spurts of whims that pass or undulate. Here is my mouth, my lips to be studied carefully, and sometimes they amusingly give me away, but you would have to watch them to know what I mean by that. I just want to know you, you know? Come closer, be rough, unedited, exposed. Show me I am not alone in this, that my emotions are not wobbling precariously in some lone wind, deserted, but that there is a vivid duality of exchange between our feelings, that there is more.
Give me something meddlesome, a feeling of yours that captures you and contrasts my own- compel me, make me breathe harder and shake my spirits. We've agreed upon exchange, but I am mournfully thinking that I anticipated more levels, more realms and angles, of pleasurable, wistful swapping than you did. And that makes me sad, makes me disappointed. You can unreceptively acknowledge those emotions, but can you understand them, can you empathize? I want you with me in my skin, feeling this longing and this sweet promise. And you would assume sweet like an over-sugared cookie, too much, and needs to be watered down. But I mean lightly, tenderly sweet, just enough. The difference in assumption and meaning, oh such is life.
You may never give me this exchange I yearn for on this lonesome evening; I may have always known that such has been asking too much from a person too unwilling to give. Oh yes, where is your will? I want you desperate, want you dripping with desire, reading my lips for my thoughts and sensations yet not stuck on me because you know the world is so awesome that it distracts you yet you want us to explore it together. And you may have your excuses… I didn't call because I didn't have anything interesting enough to share with you.. I was busy... I just, didn't... but I remain here with my shoulders shrugged and my hands open out toward you, but not holding yours because they are in your pockets, relaxed and at a complacent ease. I could seek something exotic elsewhere while having us still be together, were I not as loyal as a dog, but I am, it is not me to be otherwise. I do not know how to betray, and I will never try. But what do we have to betray, to turn my back upon, besides a witty, charming, passive understanding? I am a young woman, supple and vibrant, poised at the ready to grasp at life, yanking its strings like a marionette to do my bidding as I am young, strong, and I can shape the world as I please through my vivid thoughts and emotions. At this time right now, I am capable of reveling in lust and indulgence, in creeds of earnestness and wild truth of knowledge of life. You bring me a steady ease, but what use is ease when I already solitarily have such solace within myself? Perhaps I ask too much, perhaps I think too exotically, ahead of myself. Maybe I am thinking of myself at 23, more able-minded and independent. I am still homegrown at this point, still blooming and learning and progressing, still innocent with faintly childish tendencies in many ways. I write as though I were at some damned apex, as though I deserved the exotic zest I am temporarily craving. He would consider this all an undesirable excess of emotion, wasted energy upon washed-out, typical female emotion. And most of the time I bring myself to agree with him, when I myself am level-headed, casual, easy going about it all, but not tonight, not on this night where I find myself alone once more, with minimal indulgence and more time for myself than I know what to do with. Learn forward, dear. Give me rough and meddlesome.
leesah-likes at 1:05 a.m.